


The Hunt

by Kitty (Tamoline)



Series: Intersecting Trajectories [2]
Category: Criminal Minds, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2011-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamoline/pseuds/Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's the hunt that is part of Emily's job, and there's the hunt that Emily starts when her job gets too much. This story is about both.</p><p>Whilst this story does take place prior to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/207659/chapters/309880">Faces</a>, it should probably be read after it, though it is an independent story in its own right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Groundwork

I couldn't help a sigh of relief as I hit 'send'. There: another report done. Not precisely the sport of champions, except possibly in the opinion of JJ who seemed to actually thrive on the damned stuff. I knew it was important to document everything properly, but sometimes it seemed that we spent more time filling out forms than actually stopping bad guys. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the paperwork princess herself hurrying up the steps to Hotch's office, file in hand. Focussed expression. That probably meant something had come up that needed to have been dealt with yesterday. I surreptitiously kept an eye on Hotch's office door as I shuffled paper. Sure enough, no more than a minute or two after JJ had gone in, Hotch opened the door and leaned out.

"Briefing room, five minutes." Hotch then stepped back into his office and closed the door without so much as a backward glance as the team sprang into action.

"I wonder what kind of puzzle we're facing this time?" Reid flashed me a grin as he put his desk in order and hurried towards the briefing room. I gave him a smile in response as I stretched the kinks out before getting to my feet. An outside observer might say he looked eager. In a way, I thought that he was, twisted as it may sound. Everyone has their own way of coping with this job of ours, and this, as far as I could figure out, was his. Each case was an intellectual challenge, a puzzle to solve, a chance to match wits with someone who might just be an opponent worthy of his genius. Well, maybe he wasn't as pompous as that last part made him sound. But focusing on the case as some kind of chess match allowed him to, not forget, but at least not dwell on the fact that each new case meant at least one dead body. And we never can forget, not really.

As I said: everyone had their own ways of dealing with the job.

* * *

I kick the door shut and lean back against it, letting my bag drop from my fingers as I close my eyes and concentrate on just breathing for a minute or two. In and out, deep and even. My muscles relax and I let myself sag against the door, suddenly acutely aware of the headache spiking behind my eyes. A moment's consideration tells me it's nothing to be concerned about; it's not a migraine, just a common or garden tension headache. It'll fade soon enough, and even if it doesn't I won't let it get in my way. I have a little more focus, and a little more need, at the moment.

When I'm back on an even keel once more -- at least for now -- I push off and trudge wearily along the short hallway. Not bothering to wait until I reach the bathroom, I strip away the layers of my clothing as I go, letting them fall wherever they will. I can always pick them up later. It's been a long, long few days, and being neat and tidy is even lower on my list of priorities than usual. Right now, the urge to feel clean again is so strong it's almost painful, stronger even than hunger, or thirst, or tiredness. Or anything else. I can feel the other thing, deep in my gut, coiled and waiting like a big cat about to pounce. It stirs restlessly as I think about it, stretching beneath my skin until I feel swollen and overripe. Soon, soon, I promise, and it subsides a little, grumbling, only raking me lightly with its claws. The beast still needs to be fed, but it's content to wait for now. It knows I'll keep my promise.

It's not like I have a choice.

I dial the hot water up as high as it will go, luxuriating in the pins-and-needles sting of it on my skin. It hurts, of course, but only a little. I've had worse. Anyway, it's a good pain. It tells me that I'm still here, still alive. Still in control. Sometimes that helps. Sometimes it's necessary. I just stand under the spray for a while, not moving, just letting it wash over me. The water pounds my body, scouring it clean of the day's grit and grime. At least I can be spotless on the outside.

I showered afterwards, of course, and in the morning, and again at work, but that just isn't the same. It's good to be home. My home. My world. My sanctuary. The rest of the planet can go fuck itself. As for me... I have my own plans.

* * *

Morgan threw himself down in the seat next to me. "Sometimes I think this job is just one big cock-block," he grumbled.

I held in a smile, merely raising an eyebrow. "Hot date planned for this evening?"

"Two, actually." He grinned boyishly, then heaved a dramatic sigh. "Guess my girls are just going to have to entertain themselves without me." I rolled my eyes, but didn't say anything. Reid's brow creased in a puzzled frown. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but I caught his eye and shook my head.

"Don't bother," I advised. "You'll only feed his ego. The man's just looking for a chance to gloat."

A wounded expression on his face, Morgan pressed a hand to his chest. "That hurts me, Emily. It hurts me deeply. Why do you always have to be so cruel?" To look at him, you'd have thought I'd just kicked his puppy. He always did have a flair for the dramatic.

"That's just the way I roll, Morgan," I deadpanned.

"You are a cold, cold woman." He shook his head, miming a shiver.

"Yep." I nodded agreeably. "As ice." But I couldn't stop a smile from quirking the side of my mouth as we continued with the back-and-forth. Reid chipped in with a delightfully -- and possibly deliberately -- clueless comment, and Morgan and I smoothly turned from sniping at each other to ganging up on him. The banter was as familiar as it was welcome. I queried Morgan once about it, and he explained that it was his way of making sure that we didn't sit there imagining increasingly gruesome scenarios as we waited for the briefing to start. Besides, scoring points in these little matches was kind of fun.

"Hello, my lovelies!" Garcia made her entrance in a cloud of bright colours and bonhomie, her face illuminated as much by her smile as by the fluorescent lights that turned her hair into a candy-floss halo around her head.

"Hi Garcia." From the speed of Reid's response, I think he must have been glad of the reprieve.

Taking pity on him, I turned my attention to the new arrival. "Hey, Garcia. Love your hair." She'd dyed it again: bright pink this time, the kind you only find in cartoons and confectionery. It suited her, but then I'd yet to see a colour -- no matter how unnatural or sanity-blasting -- that she couldn't somehow make work for her. It was a real talent, though one I had no desire to emulate.

"Thanks, Emz!" She beamed at me, then plonked herself down next to Morgan, who welcomed her with open arms.

"Baby-Girl!" he proclaimed, hugging her fondly. "You know you just get more beautiful every time I see you."

"Oh, stop," she said with mock-shyness, pretending to hide behind her hands. After a moment, she peeked over the tips of her dark purple-painted nails. "By which I mean: do go on, you silver-tongued devil, you."

I'm sure Morgan would have obliged, but he was interrupted by the last member of our little group to walk through the door and take a seat. Snapping his phone shut, Rossi looked around at all of us and smiled affably. "Good afternoon, everyone. Do any of you know what this is about?"

We all turned to look expectantly at Garcia, who fluttered her eyelashes guilelessly at us. "Who, me?"

"You **are** the goddess of information," I pointed out. "It says so on your business card."

She grinned. "I need to get some more of those made up. I'm thinking of putting 'Empress of the Ether' on the next batch."

Reid sat up straight, his expression indignant. "Did Ms Grayson really let you put **that** as your title? She wouldn't even let me get my cards reprinted when they spelled my name wrong!"

"Well, no." Leaning forward, Garcia stage-whispered: "These aren't exactly official Bureau business cards, Sweetie-Pie."

"You can **do** that?" His expression was half-awed, half-horrified.

I decided to nudge the conversation back on track, overriding Reid's bemused question with. "So, Garcia: **do** you know anything about this new case?"

"Yeah, you're not holding out on us are you?" Morgan did a passable imitation of a soulful gaze.

"Oh, I'd never hold out on **you** , Handsome." She patted his arm fondly, then rested her chin on her hand, pouting. "But this time I'm afraid your deity is as much in the dark as her humble supplicants." She sighed heavily, then brightened. "Except..."

"Except?" Rossi raised an eyebrow, gesturing for her to continue.

"Except that JJ did just ask me to look up travel times and vital statistics for the township of Dodge, Boone County, Iowa."

"Then I suppose that's where we're going."

Reid looked thoughtful. "I wonder what we're going to find when we get there..."

* * *

The phone rings while I'm trying to decide what to wear. I wait a few moments for the voicemail to pick up the call, and Celia's familiar voice fills the air.

"Hi Emily, it's me. Pick up if you're there." A brief pause. "Hellooooooo," she trills. She never was very patient. But I'm already moving, a genuine smile curving my lips as I bring the handset to my ear.

"Hi Celia. I swear it's like you're psychic or something. I just got out of the shower."

"Or it's like you sent me a text message when you landed in DC. Just like you always do. Then you went into work. Like you always do. And then when they all-but ordered you to 'Just go home, dammit!' you eventually went home and showered. Like..."

"...I always do," I finish drily.

She laughs, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver right through me. Her voice is like molasses, rich and dark and smooth. It was the first thing I noticed about her, all those years ago. I remember wondering how exactly a schoolgirl my age could manage that effect, but then she's always been special. I could lose myself in the depths of that voice. "That's my Em: regular as clockwork. You are **such** a stickler for your little routines. I could set my watch by you."

"Glad to know I'm good for something." I try to keep it light, but the darkness seeps into my voice, lending the words a hint of ice. This wouldn't have happened earlier. It won't happen later. But here and now is another country entirely. I'm in transition, neither one thing nor the other, my borders fuzzy and ill-defined. Things can slip through the cracks.

"Getting ready to go out?" she asks, correctly interpreting my mood, something which might be disapproval shading her voice.

"Yet another of my little routines," I say sharply.

She is quiet for a moment, letting her silence be reproof enough.

I break. "Augh! I'm sorry for snapping at you, alright?"

"If I couldn't handle a little thing like that, then I wouldn't be your oldest and dearest friend," she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

"You have me at that, I guess," I say, allowing her a smile from my private store.

"I'm just a little worried. It hasn't been that long since the last adventure."

There are whole other things I know she wants to say, but I take a moment to appreciate that she doesn't bring them up now. I really don't need it. Not right now.

"A really bad day at the office." To say the least.

"Want to talk about it?"

I want to tell her no, but I also know that that's probably just a function of my current mood. I really don't want to think of how much she's saved me in therapist's bills. She's far better for me than Roberts at the FBI. Not to mention much nicer to look at. "Tomorrow?" I offer.

"I'll save my tales of relationship woe until then."

I smile, even though she can't see me. "Some light entertainment to look forward to."

"Ouch! You have mortally wounded me, woman."

"Do you ever worry about the side effects from hanging around a geek like me?"

She considers for a moment. "Nah. And you make a convenient scapegoat, anyway."

"Thanks."

"Take care, Em."

"You too, Cee," I say and put the phone down.

* * *

Hotch and JJ entered the briefing room, cutting off any further speculation. JJ took a seat, while Hotch went to stand in front of the currently blank projector screen; our cue to shut up and listen. From now on, it was all business.

Without preamble, Hotch launched straight into the briefing. "The Boone County Sheriff's department has requested our help in tracking down a suspected serial killer. There are eight victims so far, and the unsub has left messages indicating that there will be more."

"Timeframe?" Morgan's smile was gone as if it had never been.

"One attack a week over the past four weeks, each time hitting a pair of victims. Week five has just begun, and we are on the clock. Tie up any loose ends and grab your go-bags: we're leaving now. Garcia, with me." On that note he strode purposefully from the room, Garcia scurrying at his heels.

"That's it?" Reid sounded nonplussed. I was a little surprised myself -- time was always of the essence in these situations, but even initial briefings were usually a little more detailed than that. The general philosophy was that knowing the salient facts before setting out meant we could prepare more effectively once we were actually in transit. Not to mention allowing us to raise questions that Garcia could start looking into right away. Maybe that's what Hotch was doing now. Even so, it was more than a little unusual.

With Hotch gone, Reid looked to JJ for answers. She smiled at him, but her heart wasn't in it. "Hotch and I will brief you all further when we're in the air."

"Yes, but..."

"Excuse me -- I need to get ready." And with that, she was out of the door.

"Huh. Must be a bad one," observed Rossi.

"I guess..." Reid still seemed disconcerted, but he shrugged it off and hurried off to grab his things.

As I made my own way out of the briefing room, I glanced in JJ's direction. Something was definitely up with her. Was it this case? Maybe the rest of the briefing would clear it up. Putting such thoughts aside for the moment, I reached beneath my desk and retrieved my bag. Clothes, check. Overnight supplies, check. Bulletproof vest, check. Gun... as was my habit, I took it out and gave it a quick lookover. Bullets in the magazine, no obvious problems with any of the mechanisms. I felt prepared and ready to take on the world.

* * *

After that conversation, I decide that I really need some coffee before I proceed much further. Not that it'd be a bad idea in any case -- my makeup tends to look so much better if I'm not nodding off whilst applying it. I lean back against the counter for a second whilst the coffee maker chortles and close my eyes, just briefly.

That's a mistake.

In my half awake state, images from the last case come far too easily, and that's not what I want now. Not what I need. I force my eyelids open again and splash my face with cold water.

Isn't the coffee maker done yet?

A glance shows me the unfortunate truth. I contemplate briefly visiting my library for a book but equally quickly discard that idea. I'm not at a place where that could offer me solace at the moment.

Finally, seemingly in slow motion, the coffee maker discharges its black gold and I slump against the counter clutching a cup to my chest with a sigh. That's better.

Thus fortified, I wander back towards the bedroom and make my preparations for the evening ahead. Things flow a lot better now that I'm a little more awake, and I emerge in only a little over half an hour.

Returning to the living room, I retrieve my handbag and go over my outfit one more time in the mirror near the front door. Clothes, check. The proper earrings, check. Hair, check. Face... as is my habit, I give my makeup a quick once-over. No smearing, nothing missed. I feel prepared and ready to take on the world.

* * *

It wasn't until JJ briefed us on the deaths to date that I realised what all the urgency was about. She only gave us the raw facts of the case -- no speculation or theorising; just the facts, Ma'am -- but, taken together, they pointed in a fairly clear direction. Cause of death: severe acid burns. Reptilian scales of some kind present at all the murder sites, scattered over the bodies and the ground, as if shed. And, perhaps most telling, certain well-known terrorist slogans spray-painted at the scenes. Glancing surreptitiously around at the other members of the team, I could see I wasn't the only one to make the connection. It remained to be seen who would be the first of us to state the obvious. My money was on Reid.

"So, the unsub's a freak?" Huh. Looked like Morgan won the prize. Well, he was my second choice. No real feeling behind the epithet, though. Interesting. I filed the information away in the mental box labelled 'Morgan'. The observation and its implications meant another point to me. I liked to think that I was way ahead in the Game by now, but I hadn't gotten there by forgetting that every little detail helped. Effortlessly maintaining my mask of neutrality, I cast a surreptitious glance around at the rest of the plane's occupants. I doubted I was only one: we all played the Game, after all, whether we realised it or not. Reid: oblivious. No surprise there. Morgan: casual, relaxed. Reaction -- or lack, thereof -- consistent with context. Rossi: no particular response. Hotch: a frown, but no force behind it. Not enough information to determine whether his expression was a specific or generic reaction. JJ was the only real surprise of the bunch.

"The local authorities believe the unsub to be a mutant, yes." Narrowed eyes, a definite edge to her voice. Sudden tension in her hands. Disapproval, most likely, plus some other strong feeling. Not enough time to identify what that might be before the telltales were smoothed away. I attached more mental notes to the file labelled JJ.

"Are there even that many of them left?" That was Reid: focusing on the numbers.

"The exact numbers are unknown, but certainly far fewer than there were." JJ was back to her usual calm professionalism. "There are a few known former mutants within the county, but no confirmed currently active ones." An understated shrug. "Just the usual rumours and hearsay. Here are the crime scene photos." As we passed the photos and notes around, we reviewed the facts of the case, tossing ideas back and forth as we worked up a preliminary profile and set of questions to answer.

I started the ball rolling. "So, eight victims so far, all killed in pairs."

"Preliminary investigation by local law enforcement has confirmed that two of the pairs were couples," JJ added. "Information on the others is sketchy, but it's possible that was also true for them." I glanced up to see her shooting me an assessing and perhaps slightly hostile look. Although momentarily puzzled, understanding dawned as soon as I actually examined the photo that Reid had just handed me. That particular pair of victims were both women.

Ah.

Irrationally, it stung for a moment before I dismissed the feeling with a mental shrug. In all honesty, I couldn't say that I was entirely surprised at JJ's reaction, but I trusted enough in her professionalism to leave it at nothing more than a look.

In any case, this didn't seem to have any bearing on the case, so I scanned the picture for any further details.

"All the victims were killed in remote or otherwise deserted areas," Rossi observed. "No one to hear any cries for help."

Reid had turned his attention back to the scant biographical details that were in the case file. "No obvious pattern to the victimology," he pronounced. "Different age ranges, economic strata, physical types..." He pursed his lips. "All caucasian, but that's no real surprise given the local population demographics."

"Garcia is looking into the victims' backgrounds," Hotch interjected. "For the moment, let's concentrate on reviewing the methodology."

"Cause of death in all cases was severe acid burns." I leafed quickly through the relevant pages of the coroner's reports. "Says here that the victims likely died relatively quickly: no evidence of prolonged torture or that any of them were physically restrained."

Morgan was frowning. "If the unsub took on multiple victims at once, he must have had some way of restraining or controlling them."

I agreed. "Something that didn't leave physical evidence."

"Threats?" Rossi suggested.

JJ nodded. "If they were all couples, he could have threatened one to force compliance from the other. We've certainly seen that before."

"Maybe the unsub has some kind of psychic or telekinetic power." We all looked at Reid. "What?" he said, a little defensively. "If this really a mutant, it's something we have to consider."

"So, we could be dealing with a telekinetic, acid-spitting lizard-man?" Morgan shook his head in disgust. "That's just great."

"Let's not speculate too much at this stage," Hotch cautioned.

"And please be aware that we're going to have to be doubly careful about this one," interjected JJ. "Vigilante action is unfortunately not uncommon when mutant involvement is suspected, and it's only gotten worse since the events of M-day."

Hotch nodded in agreement. "A significant degree of pre-existing resentment, combined with the removal of the fear of retaliation, makes for an ugly situation at the best of times."

"I suspect I'm going to have my hands full just dealing with the local press," JJ continued. "A careless remark from one of us could end up sparking a lynch mob. Just please be careful out there."

We all indicated our understanding and assent. Reid and Morgan looked a little embarrassed, but they shook it off quickly enough as we got back to business. We spent the rest of the journey putting together our preliminary profile.

And pointedly **not** thinking about telekinetic, acid-spitting lizard-men.

* * *

I can feel the bass resonating within me while I'm still outside on the pavement. When I pass through the doors, it's as if I'm entering a massive, many-chambered heart, the beat throbbing in my ears and my chest like it was my very own heartbeat. A delicious thrill of anticipation shivers through me, tightening muscles and prickling across my skin. Tonight will be a good night.

Tonight will make everything right again. At least until the next time.

The night is still young, but the club is jumping, the dancefloor a kaleidoscopic whirl of bodies in motion. I'll be joining them soon enough, but first things first. I make my way to the bar, nodding and waving greetings to some of the regulars as I cross the crowded space. The bartender is busy with other customers, so I pull up a stool as I wait for her attention, picking a spot where I can watch the dancers.

I end up waiting a couple of minutes for Di -- the bartender -- to make her way over to me. I take the opportunity to cast an appraising eye over my hunting grounds. Not a bad selection.

"What'll it be tonight?"

I resist the urge to reply: 'Perhaps a nice redhead. It's been a while since I've had one of those.' That would be a little crude even for me. Instead, I scan the many bottles and logos visible behind the bar, considering my choice.

"I think I'll start with a margarita and see where that takes me."

"You got it." Di mixes the drink with quick, efficient movements, her hands so familiar with the actions that she doesn't even need to watch what she's doing. It's almost hypnotic.

"So... busy night tonight?"

She snorts as she sets my drink in front of me. "You could say that. We got a good review in some magazine or other last week. Place has been rammed ever since. Speaking of which..." She nods at the giggling gaggle of girls gathering at the other end of the bar. "Better get back to it."

I raise my glass to her as she slouches off. "No rest for the wicked, Di."

Her eyes sparkle as she glances back over her shoulder at me, her laughter dark and rich. "Oh honey, you have **no** idea." And then she's all business once more. "So, ladies: what'll it be?"

I can't help but wonder what Di's story is. Apparently she considers me one of the regulars, which means she'll share the odd amusing anecdote from her colourful past, but nothing that might tell me who she really is. Which, honestly, it would be rather hypocritical of me to complain about. I just can't help being curious.

"Well, hello there." The familiar silken tones interrupt my musings.

Inwardly gritting my teeth, I turn and smile. "Hi Vivian. How's it going?"

Vivian pulls up a stool, turning to survey the room with the air of a lioness scoping out the bountiful savannah. "It's going pretty well, thank you. Lots of fresh meat in this evening. A perfect night for a hunt, wouldn't you say?" She turns to me and smiles, that knowing look in her eyes that always sets my teeth on edge. The one that says she and I are equals.

The worst part, of course, is that I can't even deny she's largely right.

Sometimes, refusing to lie to yourself is a real pain in the ass.

I content myself with replying "Indeed," before taking another sip of my drink.

With a nod that's both 'farewell' and 'good hunting', Vivian starts to move off, before stopping and lightly touching my shoulder. "Don't look now, but I spot a certain ex of yours coming in this direction."

"Mona?" I half groan.

"You got it," she says, resuming her prowl towards her prey. "Best of luck." I can hear the smirk in her voice. I can't blame her for that, though, because I would do exactly the same in her position.

I knock back my drink and proceed to use some of that FBI training to lose myself in the crowd. I'm fairly sure that my instructors back in the academy never considered this particular application.

* * *

"Hey there, Sweetness. You missing me yet?"

"Always, Sugar. It's lonely here without you."

I smirked at Morgan and Garcia's banter. "Enough with the foreplay, you two. Just move onto the main event."

Morgan shook his head. "You can't rush these things, Prentiss."

If we'd been back at the office, I'd have cut him down with: 'That's not what some of your ex-girlfriends have said.' But since we were in the field, I reined in the snark.

"Well, you'd better hurry it up this time," was what I actually said. "The sheriff's office is only a few minutes away."

"What do you need?" I could picture Garcia poised expectantly over her keyboard.

"Everything you've managed to dig up on those former fr-", he paused for a split second as JJ's admonition caught up with him before continuing: "mutants the mayor's had the sheriff haul in."

Silence. After a moment or two without a response, Morgan frowned. "Baby-Girl?" Still nothing. "Garcia? You still there?"

"Freaks?" I almost didn't recognise her voice. I'd heard her angry before, I'd heard her upset. I'd never heard her so... cold. Certainly not towards one of us, and especially not Morgan, her favourite member of our little family.

Morgan almost visibly checked himself, faint puzzlement in his eyes. "Talk to me, Garcia," he said softly. "What's wrong."

"Freaks, Morgan? Was that what you were going to say?"

"Slip of the tongue. I do know that we're supposed to refer them as mutants while we're here."

"That's not the point. They're people, Derek. Like you or me." Her voice cracked; now it sounded like she was on the verge of tears. "Just people who happen to be -- or to have been -- slightly different to your so-called average Joe."

"I think it goes a bit deeper than that." He took a deep breath, keeping his voice low and even. "We wouldn't have regs about them in government work otherwise."

"They didn't **ask** to be different! They didn't ask to be pointed at, or persecuted, or blown up! Most of them just want to live their lives in peace, like any reasonable person!" She heaved a deep, sobbing breath, continuing in a barely audible whisper. "They didn't ask to be called freaks."

Words seemed to fail her at that point. Morgan, too, seemed to be having trouble working out what to say. I stayed quiet as they both struggled, keeping well clear while I attempted to map this unsuspected minefield. Whilst personally I didn't have an opinion on the mutant question, it seemed that Garcia did; and a strong one at that. But I could see her point. I, of all people, knew that language was a powerful tool. Words of belonging and words of alienation; words to unite and words to divide. People like us and people like them: the different, the undesirable, the other.

Morgan took a deep breath, drawing my attention back to him. "I'm sorry, Garcia," he said. "I didn't mean anything by it. And I really didn't mean to upset you." Soothing words, calming words. Not necessarily the sign of a true change of heart, but he would at least think more carefully about his choice of words in future. The bond between them was strong enough that I couldn't imagine them not working it out.

There were a few moments of silence, which Garcia presumably used to recover her equilibrium. Certainly, she sounded much calmer when she next spoke. "I'll send everything I have through to you now. If I dig up anything else, you'll be the first to know." She hung up without saying goodbye.

True to her word, the files appeared almost as soon as the call disconnected. Morgan read out the salient points as I tried to locate the apparently well-hidden sheriff's office. After we'd finished going over the edited highlights he paused, looking pensive.

"So, did I piss you off too?"

I considered for a moment. "Not particularly," I said mildly. "But you better not make any more slips, given where we're going to be shortly."

"Yeah, I know. I'll be careful." Brows knitted together, he hesitated a little before asking: "We're still good, then?"

"Still good," I confirmed. Morgan seemed relieved. I shrugged my shoulders. "It's not a big thing for me. But I'd seriously suggest you start thinking of ways to make it up to Garcia."

"Already on it," he muttered. Wincing a little, he added: "I'm... guessing it's going to take a lot more than flowers and chocolates."

I nodded. "I'm guessing so."


	2. Interrogation

"... what the sheriff was thinking when she called you in on this! We have this... this situation under control, Agent Hotchner. One of those freaks in there" -- the florid-faced man berating Hotch stabbed a finger viciously in the direction of the cells -- "either did this or can lead us to the thing that did it. We'll find this monster and we'll stop it. We don't **need** your help."

"Mayor Valk." Ah. So **this** was the infamous Mayor. I had wondered why Sheriff Lemmer had been so eager to meet us out in the field, rather than in her office. "I promise you that if one of those people in there does know something, then we will find it out. It's what we're trained to do." To anyone who didn't know him, Hotch was the very essence of polite deference; as neutral and impassive as a statue. But the slight twitch of his eyebrow spoke volumes on his true feelings about the mayor and his posturing.

Catching sight of Morgan and I, Hotch discreetly waved us in the direction of the cells. We didn't need to be told twice. The mayor's dulcet tones followed us down the corridor even after Morgan closed the door behind us. However, he was soon drowned out by a sound not unlike the buzzing of a horde of locusts. It was much worse than locusts, though: it was the press. JJ seemed to have them more or less in hand for the moment, having corralled them into a side-room, but it looked like they could turn at any second. I didn't envy her one bit.

  
I paused before the door to the interview room, quickly reviewing my information about the individual I was about to question. It also gave me a moment to settle my nerves a little. Whilst I knew consciously that mutants were basically people like any other, and that these had lost their powers in any case, there was still something that provoked an unease in me. Completely irrational, but there it was. They were different, my brain tried to insist. Other. And that attitude was not going to help. Not now, and not if I had to face our unsub. It remained to be seen how successful I actually was in banishing it.

It also didn't help that I really didn't have high hopes for this particular exercise. For one thing, none of these people seemed to be a particularly good match for our unsub. We had been intending to talk to them anyway, but our plan was to approach them in their homes and politely ask for their help. Dragging them in like this would only put their backs up. Still, we were here to assist the locals. Since they'd gone ahead and done this against our advice, we would just have to work around it. No matter how stupid it was.

No matter how stupid I was being.

  
"Angela Martinez?" I sat down opposite the dark-haired young woman.  
_

I studied the adolescent boy, taking careful note of the fresh bruises on his face. "Jason Montgomery?"  
_

"Miranda Hendrickson?" I smiled reassuringly at the clearly nervous middle-aged woman. "My name is Emily Prentiss. I'm with the FBI."  
_

"Huh." Jason leaned back in his chair, his cut and swollen lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Let me guess: local cops were so scared of us, they had to call in the Feds." A pause, and then: "Bastards!"  
_

"But I haven't done anything wrong, Miss, no, I'm sorry, Agent Prentiss. I don't even know why I'm here. Please... You have to tell them. I... I'm not like that any more. I got better."  
_

"Why am I here, Agent Prentiss?" Angela's voice was calm, her posture open, her movements relaxed and subdued. She could be serenity personified, if it wasn't for the wariness in her eyes.  
_

"You're not in any trouble, Mrs Hendrickson. I just have a few questions for you, if that's alright."

"But my children will be home from school soon. They'll wonder where I am. I didn't even have time to leave a message." She clasped her hands tightly together in front of her, but it didn't stop them trembling. "I don't like them coming home to an empty house."

"This shouldn't take long." I hoped. "But before we get started, would like to call someone? A neighbour, perhaps, or the school?"

She looked at me as if I'd suddenly started speaking Martian. "You'd... You'd let me do that?"

"Of course." I made a mental note to have words with whoever had brought Mrs Hendrickson in. They hadn't even told her she could make a phone call? "Here -- you can use my phone." I practically had to press the device into her hands, but she managed to pull herself together sufficiently to make the call. It sounded like she was arranging for a neighbour to watch her children, but I made a mental note to have Garcia trace the number when I was done here.

When she had finished, she handed the phone back to me with a timid smile. "Thank you so much, uh, Agent Prentiss. I'll pay for the call, of course."

"Don't worry about it." I returned her smile. "I have free minutes, so it didn't cost anything. Now, shall we get started?"  
_

"Didn't the officers explain that to you when you came in?"

"Not really. They just said I needed to come to the station to answer some questions. Because of the murders." She eyed me levelly. "Because I used to be a mutant."

I nodded. "Yes."

"Am I a suspect?"

"Is that what they told you?"

"Oh no, not at all." A quick, emphatic shake of her head. "But I hear the gossip, Agent Prentiss. I've seen the way people look at me when they don't think I can see them. Since the murders started..." She shrugged helplessly. "Truth to tell, I'm grateful to the Sheriff for bringing me in. I was starting to get a little worried."

"Has anyone threatened you?"

She considered her words carefully before replying. "Not directly."

"But indirectly?"

"I don't know that I'd call them threats, exactly, but certain people aren't exactly shy about making their opinion known. Like the Mayor." Her eyes took on a haunted cast. "And I've seen how things can escalate."

Any remaining unease I might have had about being in a room with a former mutant evaporated. "We won't let that happen here," I told her firmly.

She looked down for a few seconds and when she looked back up again her gaze had returned to its former serenity. "What do you want to know?"  
_

"This is bullshit!" Jason glowered at me, then at the two-way mirror that took up most of one wall. "I didn't have anything to do with any murders. They know I didn't. Any excuse to round up the freaks; that's what it is. They..." A hacking cough cut off whatever else he was about to say, but he managed to gasp out: "Fuckers," as he wheezed and spluttered.

"Are you alright?" I started towards him, but he flinched away, half-raising one arm. I kept my distance. "Do you need some water?"

"What the fuck do you care?" There was a weariness in his voice that would have been out of place even on someone twice his age. I quickly revised my strategy.

"Well, if you die on my watch, I have to fill out a whole shit-load of forms. And I really hate paperwork."

Of all the things he might have been expecting, humour clearly wasn't among them. He blinked at me for a moment, then shook his head. "Funny. That why you're in here with me? You're" -- he made air quotes with two fingers -- "down with the kids?"

I had to pull a face at that phrase. Not to mention the air quotes. "God, I hope not." I looked him over, more than a little concerned about the rasping sound of his breathing, and the way he was clutching at his chest. Something clicked in my mind. "Do you have asthma?"

He nodded. "Yeah. But the fuckers took my inhaler."

"Do you know the" -- calling them fuckers would be highly unprofessional of me -- "officers' names?"

"Nope. Too busy getting my face shoved through the floor at the time." Oh, yeah: it was gonna be bitch-slaps all around today.

"I'll go see if I can find it." I paused in the doorway, looking back at Jason with a crooked smile of my own. "Don't go anywhere."  
_

"My hair grew." Angela smiled at my obvious confusion. "About an inch every hour," she clarified.

"That must have been a little inconvenient." She did have lovely hair, though, I noticed: long and glossy and thick, with a slight wave running through it.

"Occasionally, but it wasn't too bad as long as I remembered to cut it every morning. It just became part of my daily routine."

"That's still a lot of hair."

"Yes. It used to drive my parents mad until we figured out we could actually sell it."

"Wig-makers?"

She nodded. "We used to box it up and send it off at the end of every week. "When I moved to LA, though, the wig-maker just had me come in every morning so one of his stylists could cut it. Sometimes they'd try out different styles on me as well."

"LA? Are you an actress?" That much was in her file, but certain types of questions sometimes helped to build rapport.

"I'm trying to be. I haven't been in anything big yet, but I'm still trying." Her eyes clouded. "It's a little embarrassing to admit it, but without the extra income from selling my hair, I ran out of money pretty quickly. I guess I'd gotten used to having the safety net." She spread her hands, the motion graceful and eloquent. "The acting jobs weren't exactly flooding in, so I thought I'd move back home for a while and try to build up some savings."  
_

"Here you go." I handed Jason the inhaler I'd almost had to pry from someone's cold dead fingers. "I also brought you a bottle of water, and an ice-pack for that shiner." He checked the inhaler before using it; looking for signs of tampering? When he picked up the bottle of water, he checked the seal on that as well before opening it. Curious. "You want me to take a swig to prove it's not poisoned?"

He shook his head, downing about half of it in one go. "That's okay. I reckon Fed germs would probably be worse than laxatives, anyway."

"Laxatives?"

"Yeah. This ain't the first time I've been hauled in here." He pulled himself up with a twisted kind of pride. My instincts told me he meant it about the laxatives. This was serious. Bruises from being hauled in could -- and probably had been -- waved away as 'reasonable force'. Poisoning someone in custody? That was a whole different ball game.

"Any idea who it was?"

He shot me a black look, one that said I should know better than that. "No. Can't even prove it really happened. Not that it'd do me any good if I could." He frowned, shifted awkwardly in the hard chair. "It's a small town, and the Mayor ain't exactly shy about his feelings on freaks. Some of the other cops get a little... enthusiastic?" A sour expression twisted his face. "Not like they're gonna get anything more than a slap on the wrist. If that."

"What about Sheriff Lemmer?"

"She seems okay, I guess. For a cop. But with the mayor pulling the strings..." He trailed off. "What can you do?"

I digested this for a moment or two. The picture he'd painted wasn't exactly inconsistent with my observations so far. And if a teenage boy had figured it out... But we were here to do a job, and interfering with the way the locals did **their** jobs -- or not -- was a surefire way to get your invitation withdrawn. Then another bad guy went free to kill again. It was time to get back on topic.

"So, what was your ability?"

"That ain't in your file?"

"Humour me."

"Fine, whatever. Ain't a secret. I could hold my breath a really, really long time." He coughed a little, then muttered: "Didn't have asthma back then, of course."

"That's it?"

If looks would kill, I would have been stone-cold dead right then and there. "Yeah, that's it. Trust me, if I'd had one of the cool powers, I'd have run away to join the X-men in a New York second." He shrugged and finished off the rest of the water, massaging his chest. "Thought about doing it anyway, but figured there wasn't much point. They'd just send me away like all the other losers."  
_

"I... I could sense plants." Miranda smiled shyly. "I mean, they didn't speak to me, but I could... I could always tell when they needed water, or if there was something was wrong with them. I didn't even know I was a, well, you know. I just thought I was good with plants."

"How did you find out?"

"I had cancer, Agent Prentiss."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs Hendrickson."

"Thank you, dear. I mean, Agent." She smiled tremulously. "The doctors managed to get it all. I just have to go back for regular check-ups. Anyway, one of the tests they ran at the time... Well, apparently it's now routine to test sick people for the X-gene." The unexpected burst of laughter was high and tense, a sound perilously close to tears. "Even I know that's what mutants have. But apparently it's a... 'a potential confounding factor'." That sounded like she was quoting someone or something. I had a fair idea what it might be.

"It can affect the course of a disease, and the efficacy of any treatment regimen." I'd read the same pamphlets during one of my occasional stays in hospital.

"Yes." She nodded. "Anyway, I had it. But they never managed figure out its, uh, 'phenotypic effects', so they said it was almost certainly a 'negligible expression' and went ahead with the treatment." She looked down at her hands. "I only realised the truth about my so-called 'green touch' when I lost it." With an obvious effort, she made herself look back up at me, meeting my gaze. "But I'm still good with plants, Miss Prentiss. I just have to work a little harder at it nowadays."

"I'm sure you are, Mrs Hendrickson." I smiled back at her, but something was niggling at me. "If you don't mind me asking: how did the police know about you?" It wasn't as if she was an obvious mutant, and she didn't really seem the type to brag about possessing the X-gene. Especially, given what Jason had told me, in a place like this.

Her eyes clouded again. "I... I don't know. But, well, this is a small town, and gossip spreads fast." Despite such trivial considerations as doctor-patient confidentiality, apparently. Wonderful. Well, if the word wasn't out before, it certainly was now.  
_

"This is a small town, Agent Prentiss. Of course I know those names." I had to check about connections between all the former mutants currently in the station. Standard procedure. "But Mrs Hendrickson is the only one I've met personally. I've bought flowers from her a few times." A somewhat sardonic smile. "She has a real way with plants."

"How about these?" I read out the list of victims' names.

"Cindy and Lena are... were... two of my best friends." For the first time, she lost her carefully controlled manner, breath hitching as true grief -- or at least a damn good imitation of it -- shone in her eyes. "I was the first person they told..." She abruptly cut herself off mid-sentence, glancing up at me warily.

"I know that they were a couple, Ms Martinez." And then, because she was obviously still troubled, I added: "It's alright."

She relaxed minutely. "Of course." A bitter laugh. "I forgot: you're not from around here, are you? You're from the big city. Anyway, yes, I was the first person they told. They asked for my help breaking it to their parents. Funny thing is, though, we never were particularly close before that. The only reason they even came to me is that they thought a bonafide Hollywood actress probably wouldn't be shocked by a lesbian romance. And, if I was, it wasn't like I spent much time here." Her gaze grew distant, a gentle smile curling the edges of her lips. "They were so nervous. I couldn't turn them away. And by the end of it, we were friends. Simple as that." She blinked, regaining her focus. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I just... I can't believe they're gone."

"I understand. It's alright." I projected calm reassurance as strongly as I could. I knew this next part wasn't going to be easy. "Now, can you think of anyone who would want to harm your friends?"  
_

"What, you think freaks all hang around together, or something?" Jason shot me a disgusted look. "Of course I know who they all are -- you'd have to be deaf, blind and a fucking dumb-ass not to get that memo -- but I don't know them. It ain't like we have anything in common. Aside from the obvious. And no, before you ask, I don't know of any who aren't on your little list. Just this killer that's fucking everything up for the rest of us."

"Why do you think the killer is a mutant?"

"Snake scales? Spitting acid? The mutant supremacy slogans? Gee, I don't know, **Agent**." He spat the word out like it was a curse. "You tell me."

Maybe the sarcasm wasn't undeserved, but I had to ask. There was always a slim chance he might have had some inside information. Even if everything I'd seen of Motormouth Montgomery up to know suggested that he wasn't exactly prone to holding back. Time to move on.  
_

"I don't know anyone who would do **that**." Miranda shuddered, looking sickened.

I frowned. "I didn't know the local police had released a statement." She gave me a look, and I grinned ruefully. "I know: small town, right?"

She nodded, but didn't return my smile. "You'll catch the killer, won't you? This place... It has its problems, but it's a good place. These are good people. And no one deserves to die that way. No one."

"We will catch them, Mrs Hendrickson. It's what we do." I just hoped we'd do it before anyone else died.

  
"Well, that was a big fat waste of time." Once the interviews were over, Morgan and I retired to an out of the way corner to confer.

Morgan looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth. "Man, if Garcia thought I sounded like that prick of a mayor, no wonder she went off at me." He shook his head in disgust. "What are we doing here, Prentiss? My three didn't know a damn thing."

"Neither did mine." We compared notes.

"So much for keeping this quiet."

"Looks like the cat was out of the bag long before we got here." I shook my head, suddenly exhausted by this whole situation. "Hotch and JJ are going to have to do some serious damage control."

"We should fill 'em in." Morgan made as if to head out, then hesitated. "You think he's managed to get rid of the mayor yet?"

"Scared he's going to try to bond with you?" I couldn't resist the dig.

"Shut the fuck up, Prentiss. I'm nothing like that asshole." Someone was feeling defensive.

"Yeah, I know." I flashed Morgan a lopsided smile, trusting him to see the unspoken apology. "You're way prettier."

"Damn straight, woman." He grinned back at me, and then we were both back to business. "Now let's get this done."

  
The mayor was still in the foyer after all. He clearly hadn't finished with Hotch, but Hotch was just as obviously done with him. Something more important had just come up.

"Get the team together," Hotch ordered, not even breaking stride as he walked past us. "We need to talk."

"Agent Hotchner, I insist..."

"Privately." Ooh. The mayor really had pissed him off.

"Yes sir," I murmured.

Morgan already had his phone in hand. "I'll take Reid."

"I've got Rossi." Anticipation simmered as I pulled out my own phone. Maybe this meant we'd actually caught a break. We sure as hell needed one.

* * *

I pause for a moment, giving my target another once-over before starting to make my way through the press of people on the dancefloor. I have a good feeling about this. I move with the music, synchronising my rhythm with hers as I draw closer, smiling in a way that can only be described as predatory. I make no secret of my intentions as I meet her eyes.

"Mind if I join you?"

  
The brunette smiles back at me, looking me over appraisingly before meeting my gaze with hungry eyes, flicking her long hair back and tilting her head to display bare shoulders and a sweep of collarbone; an impressive expanse of cleavage. The gesture is smooth and practiced, as is the effortless way she shimmies in close to me, putting one arm around my neck and resting her other hand proprietorially on my hip. She doesn't speak, but her body language is almost deafening.  
_

"Not at all." The blonde looks me up and down, smiling appreciatively to show she likes what she sees. She moves back a little, making room for me to slide in close to her. We dance together for a little while without speaking, letting the music guide our movements. It seems only natural for my hands to drift to her hips, her arms to slide up, encircling my neck.  
_

"Um, please do." The redhead smiles shyly at me, gesturing to the space in front of her. For a moment, I almost reconsider, but then I see the way she's looking at me under her eyelashes. Not a complete innocent, then. I keep dancing, moving with the beat as I slowly close the space between us, deliberately drawing it out to see what she'll do. At the last, she steps forward and closes the final few inches of distance.  
_

"I've seen you here before," the blonde murmurs, brushing up against me to the beat of a slow, sensual number.

"I've seen you, too." It might be true. She does look a little familiar, but then it isn't like there's a dearth of scantily-dressed blondes here. Still, she seems pleased by my words, and I do aim to please. I let one of my hands slide down a little, almost but not quite brushing the curve of her ass. In response, she tightens her arms around my neck, drawing herself up to meet me. I lean in to meet her halfway.

"I've heard about you," she breathes.

"Good things, I hope," I question only half seriously.

Her only answer is to smile up at my face with an utter lack of innocence.  
_

"So," the redhead says, pitching her voice low and seductive. "Do you come here often?"

No, that generally happens later in the evening. I don't say that aloud, of course. She already looks embarassed enough, a flush spreading over her charmingly freckled cheeks.

"Oh, my god. I can't believe I just said that. What a cliche. You must think I'm an idiot."

I fight to keep my laughter inside, knowing it would send completely the wrong message. My voice and expression are both sober when I reply: "You're not an idiot."

"Really? You're not just saying that."

I put a hand on her shoulder, drawing my fingertips lightly down her arm. "Really."

Suddenly, she doesn't seem embarassed anymore.  
_

Somewhere along the way, the dance turns into a competition. Our bodies slide and struggle against each other in a wordless fight for dominance. The brunette wraps a leg around me, pressing forward as she tries to use her weight to make me arch against her. Instead, I side-step and turn so she's off balance and ends up clinging to me. Smiling fiercely, she grips my ass and pulls me against her even more tightly, practically grinding our crotches together.

"I knew you'd be a challenge," she whispers throatily.

"Is that so?" I keep my tone light as I disengage from the clinch. Dancing close is one thing, but public bump 'n' grinding is a little outside my comfort zone.

"Oh, yeah." Ignoring my attempts to keep distance between us, she tangles a hand in my hair and forcefully pulls me in for a kiss.  
_

Her eyes meet mine as we slow-dance, something shining from their depths. Something I recognise; something I lost a long time ago. Something I hesitate to pin down with anything as concrete as a label. And in that instant I know I won't be going home with her this night. When she loses that innocence, as we all must, it should be to someone who has a chance of feeling the same way.

That isn't me. Not anymore.

And I'm not so far gone that I'd take that from her. With a smile, I make my excuses and introduce her to someone else. Hopefully someone better. I wait around long enough to see the dance begin again, before I resume my own activities.

A pity. I did feel like a redhead tonight.  
_

Before either of us realises what's happening, I have her spun around with her arm halfway up her back.

"That isn't very friendly," the brunette purrs, her voice only a little strained around the edges.

I take a moment to stifle my alarm, almost panic, before replying. "Neither is sexual assault." My words are flat; unemotional. Better than the alternative.

"What?" She struggles now, her voice indignant. "I was just going to kiss you."

"You were trying to force yourself on me," I correct. "Now, leave this club and if I see you around here again, you better damn well be on your best behaviour." I release her and she spins around to look me defiantly in the face, mouth open to throw back some retort. Before she can, I add: "I will not be nearly so **friendly** next time," and I give her my best cold glare.

Wisely, she decides to retreat, and I see her making her way towards the exit.

Good. I really don't need any trouble tonight.

I wait for a few seconds for my hands to stop shaking, then get back to the hunt.  
_

Our bodies fit well together. That's a good sign. We don't exchange much in the way of conversation, but it's enough to tell me that she's interested, funny and probably not looking for anything more serious than a night of fun and frolics. It's at times like this, when I'm in the middle of a hunt, that I feel the most alive.

"So....?" she says, eyes sparkling up at me.

"So?" I quirk an eyebrow at her, inviting her to elaborate.

"Shall we take this elsewhere?"

Although part of me wants to say: 'Yes, let's go,' I make myself give her the standard disclaimer first. "You do know that this is for one night only? I'm not looking for a relationship."

"I know." She doesn't seem at all fazed. "I'm not exactly in the market for anything long-term myself. Besides, as I said: I've heard about you."

Good enough. "Your place, then?"

The blonde hesitates. "We could, but I have a flatmate. What about your place?"

"A little too far out of town," I lied. "But I'm sure we can be... discreet enough not to bother your flatmate."

"Okay." She agrees too readily for that to have been a major worry, taking my hand and leading me from the dancefloor. "Let's go, then."

"Yes." I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the soft skin. "Let's."

Time to bring this hunt to its conclusion. I smirked mentally. Or maybe its climax.

* * *

Somehow, the mayor managed to muscle his way into the profile briefing. Hotch didn't bother trying to get him removed -- his presence was unlikely to do any further damage at this point, and there was no sense in pissing him off even further. The tantrum he'd thrown at being kept out of the team conference had been well nigh legendary. I suppressed a smile at the memory.

Hotch took the floor. We all agreed that the initial kicker would go down far better coming from him. Hell, some of us were still reeling at this one; it was bound to hit the locals even harder.

"Thank you all for coming." Time being of the essence, Hotch got right to the point. "First, and most importantly, the unsub is not a mutant." After dropping that bombshell, he paused for the inevitable reaction. To no one's great surprise, the mayor was the most vocal in expressing his disbelief.

"Bullshit! What do you mean, 'not a mutant'? Of course he's a god-damned son of a bitch Mutie-Freak! Only a fool or a liar would say otherwise. Which are you, **Agent** Hotchner? Huh? A fool or a liar?"

Hotch didn't bat an eyelid. "The lab results have just come in, and the evidence is quite compelling."

"What about the scales?" That came from Sheriff Lemmer, Mayor Valk's protests having devolved into nothing more than apoplectic spluttering.

"The scales have been identified as those of a python regius, or ball python. They appear to have come from several different animals, but all of that species. Ball pythons are the one of the most common type of snakes kept as pets."

One of the officers spoke up next. Apparently this had become a free-for-all. "What if they just look like snake scales? Or if the mutant's some kind of shapeshifter or something?"

"Genetic analyses have confirmed the biological material to be animal, not human. And all samples came back negative for the X-gene." He permitted himself a thin smile. "Additionally, the scales also had traces of glue."

The sheriff frowned. "He... glued snake scales onto himself?"

"Actually, there were fragments of material caught in the glue, suggesting a costume of some kind."

"But what about the acid?" Great. The mayor had regained the use of his voice. "The killer spits acid over his victims!"

"Analysis of the corrosive substance has identified it as an industrially produced and utilised strong acid. We don't think it's likely that such a substance would be produced by a snake mutant. One of my agents is currently investigating possible local sources."

"But... But..." I wondered if the mayor's face could get any redder before his whole head exploded. "Well, we could still be talking about a freak, just one that's lost his... his powers. Maybe he's just trying to imitate what he lost."

This seemed like as good an opportunity as any. I looked to Hotch, who gave me the nod. "Actually, the profile suggests otherwise. Everything about these murders is indicative of someone who wants to join the club, not who's already part of it. Or who was a part of it." The whole thing was just a bit too much, just a bit too overdone. In hindsight it was obvious, but we'd let ourselves be blinded by the staging. I supposed we could hardly blame the locals for doing the same.

The sheriff was frowning, but I could see her working towards acceptance. "You mean we're dealing with a mutant wannabe?"

"Essentially, yes. He's likely undergoing a major psychotic break, and actually believes that he really is a mutant. This means he will probably respond accordingly if confronted."

"I see." She straightened and met my gaze, sudden determination in her eyes. "So, what can you tell me and my men about him?"

I nodded in acknowledgement of the opening. "The unsub is white, male and in his mid-twenties."

Reid took over smoothly. "He is educated, and possesses an undergraduate degree, probably majoring in chemistry or a related field."

"He will be socially awkward." Morgan cast his gaze over the assembled local police officers, deliberately avoiding the mayor. "Not many friends, doesn't go out much. Spends a lot of time online."

Rossi stepped up. "He has likely suffered a recent rejection of some kind: perhaps a girlfriend broke up with him, or he lost a job." Privately, we figured the break-up scenario was more likely, but it was bad practice to weight the profile in that way without sufficient evidence.

Our part in the show done, we turned the floor back over to Hotch. "The unsub clearly has a good working knowledge of local geography. It's been a few days since his last kill, so he will be on the lookout for another pair of victims. He chooses his sites carefully, so I would like you to stake out as many of the local lovers' spots as you can. Look for a vehicle with a single occupant, probably parked somewhere out of the way with a good view of actual rendezvous area. In the meanwhile, my team will concentrate on trying to determine the unsub's identity. Over to you, Sheriff."

She nodded to him and stepped forward, talking right over the mayor's attempt to seize control of the proceedings. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, you heard the agents: we've got a killer to catch. Let's get to it."

It was good advice. While the locals sorted out surveillance assignments, we headed out. We had our own leads to follow.

* * *

As we're queuing to collect our coats from the cloakroom, I see something that makes me frown. I dither for maybe a fraction of a second, but really, there's no way I can live with myself if I don't at least try to intervene. I turn to the blonde at my side, pushing my cloakroom ticket into her hand.

"I just need to take care of something," I say, starting to step away. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

"What is it? Did you spot a better prospect?" She tries to keep her tone light, but there's an undercurrent of hurt to the words. It makes me turn back and try to explain, rather than rushing off and asking for forgiveness later.

"Of course not." I aim for a reassuring tone, making eye contact as I touch her lightly on the arm. "I met a girl earlier, a nice **innocent** " -- I deliberately emphasise the word -- "girl on what's probably her first visit here."

"I don't understand." She looks puzzled, but not pissed off. That's a good sign.

"Well, I just saw her with Vivian." I know she's a regular here. I just hope she's enough of one for the name to mean something to her. From the look of recognition in her eyes, I see that it does.

"You know, some girls wouldn't mind Vivian being their first experience," she says, a warning note in her voice. "Some of us aren't looking for 'special', we just want a good time."

"I don't think that this girl is one of them," I say, tossing off a shrug in an attempt to be casual. It's a gut feeling. Unreliable, but I have to go with it.

The blonde looks me deep in the eyes and sighs. "Well, what are you waiting for?" She thumps me gently on the shoulder for emphasis. "Go save the damsel in distress!"

I smile at her, surprising myself with a genuine feeling that isn't lust. "Thanks for understanding. I'll be back soon."

I quickly cross the dancefloor until I'm standing by the pair. They are close together, aware of no one but each other. It just about breaks my heart to see the starstruck expression on the redhead's face contrasted with Vivian's predatory demeanour. She deserves better than this; much better. I tap Vivian on the shoulder.

"Mind if I cut in?" I say, a question that isn't really a question.

She looks at me, annoyance melting to surprise as she realises who it is that's butting in. I can see her weighing up her options, figuring out how much this is worth to her. Does she want the redhead enough to risk a dominance struggle with someone she considers at least her equal? In the end, she tilts her head towards me.

"Be my guest." The smile on her lips doesn't reach her eyes; her expression telling me that she'll concede this once, but that this exchange will not be without consequences. Good enough for now. I can worry about fallout some other time. As she strides away, I turn my attention to the somewhat confused-looking redhead.

"You can do so much better than a one-night stand," I say softly. "Don't let this be something you'll regret later."

Feeling acutely uncomfortable, I hug her awkwardly and melt back into the crowd before she can do so much as close her gaping mouth.

There. Good deed done.

  
"Sorry about that," I mutter to my companion, accepting the jacket she hands to me.

"Don't be." She grins, leaning in to plant a kiss on my cheek. "I kind of like that you're a knight in shining armour."

I sweep an exaggerated bow, holding out my arm with a smile. "If I'm a knight, does that make you my princess? At least for tonight."

Giggling, she takes my arm. "I think I like that. Prithee, let us be off to my palace where, verily, we shall make merry."

For a moment, I almost regret that this will be for only one night. It's far too rare to find a fellow geek at places like this. But I'm far too deep in this now, and so I continue. "Verily," I agree, solemnly.

Too much analysis. Time to stop thinking and start feeling.


	3. Contact

"Shit!" My wrist hit the wall, my gun dropping from nerveless fingers to bounce off the floor and skitter away into the shadows. Well, this sucked: our profile never said anything about the unsub being built like a pro-linebacker. I let my instincts take over, using my free hand to grab a dusty jar of unknown liquid from a nearby shelf and throw it directly at his face. He flinched away from the impact and I followed through with a brace and push, shoving him away from me as hard as I could. At the same time, I swung my other wrist over and around, letting my knees flex to bring my weight down the weakest part of the hold. It worked as intended; I broke free of his iron grip, feeling something pop in his hand as I did so. He yelled -- a sound more of anger than of pain -- and swung for me again. I dodged the blow -- just! -- but I stepped on some unidentified piece of debris and stumbled, only just managing to keep my feet. This place was a goddamn deathtrap!

  
"Ah!" The blonde cries out as her shoulders hit the wall, keys flying from her fingers to bounce and skitter across the polished floorboards. Her high, startled gasp melts into a moan as I let my instincts take over, pressing my body into hers and covering her lips with my own. I kiss her thoroughly, passionately, demandingly, grinding our lower bodies together and running my hands over every part of her I can reach. She meets my passion with her own, returning the kiss with equal fervour as she starts fumbling with my clothing. Drawing back just a little, I cup her breasts through the thin shirt she's (barely) wearing, confirming what I'd already figured out: she isn't wearing a bra. She shivers as I tease her nipples with my thumbs, her breath hitching in a way that thrills me to my core. I take advantage of her distraction to ease my leg between hers, sliding it upwards until: "Oh!" Houston, we have contact.

  
Hop over one obstacle, skip around another, run the short length of clear space. Rinse and repeat.

I needed my gun, but I wasn't getting past the unsub in these confined quarters. A wrestling match was a losing proposition. I had to get some space, had to keep moving. Had to draw him away from Morgan.

(Morgan was alive; he had to be alive. Just unconscious. Hurt, but alive. He was going to be okay. He was. As long as I could keep the unsub from finishing the job.)

I moved as fast as I could over the treacherous ground, occasionally grabbing some random item to throw at my pursuer. Trinkets, trash, even -- though a part of me winced -- books. Anything could be a weapon if used correctly. It didn't really matter whether or not I actually hit as long as I managed to slow the bastard down.

A thud and a yell. Lucky shot!

I risked a quick glance over my shoulder: there was a gash on his forehead, just above one eye. For a split-second, disbelief on his face, then that was washed away on a tide of pure, primal fury. He'd been pissed off before. Now, he was enraged. Giving in to his primitive, animal side, he abandoned the chase-and-grab approach, put his head down and charged.

Great. I could take advantage of his loss of control. But first, I had to survive a tackle that had taken down Morgan.

Time to run.

  
Heat and friction; tangled legs and wandering hands. Devouring, consuming kisses. Clothes askew and buttons gaping open; all the better to touch, to taste, to **feel**.

My lover tosses her head back, eyes half-closed as she moans low and deep in her throat. Her face is flushed, her hair straggling free from its artful knot to wreathe her face in gold, like a halo. Or a crown.

So beautiful.

My breath catches in my throat; sudden sense of vertigo as I step willingly over the precipice once more. A wrenching shift of perception as the world reels briefly, then settles into its new pattern. An old pattern, but fresh and fierce every time I let myself fall.

I love her.

Released from its iron cage, my heart swells like a bird stretching its wings after a long captivity. I love her, this nameless, beautiful stranger. My lover of the moment; my angel of the night.

I love her. Just like I love them all.

That's why it's always so hard to walk away.

  
Stars in my eyes as my head slammed into the floor: a jarring impact that rattled my whole body.

Pain.

I'd almost made it to the living room before the unsub crashed into me. Almost. He only clipped me, but it was still like being hit by a freight train. My outflung hands absorbed some of the force, but not enough to stop me kissing carpet. It hurt like a son of a bitch.

Focus! Move or die.

Blink my vision clear, push aside the pain, ignore my body's protests.

I knew the drill.

I kicked back once, twice, three times; each shock of impact rewarded by a grunt of pain. Third time was the charm, and then I was free.

"Bitch," wheezed the unsub. Panting breath, creak of floorboards.

Get up!

I dragged myself to my feet, almost bodily hauling myself up with bruised and stinging hands. Staggering a little, I put a chair between me and him. Just in time. He lunged, I dodged out of the way. The dance went on.

Had to keep moving, had to maintain distance so I could get around him. All part of the plan.

Madly, in one part of my mind, I couldn't help profiling him as we played our demented game of cat and mouse. Naturally well-built, had obviously worked hard to improve on what nature gave him. Smart, but didn't think straight when he lost his temper. Not combat trained, and not fast or co-ordinated enough to actually be a linebacker.

Lucky for me.

If he was any better at this, I'd already be down.

Just like Morgan.

  
So close. She's so close. Muscles bunch and quiver, she draws a breath, opens her mouth. I tense in anticipation of her cry, but then...

"No! Wait!"

What?

"We... We can't!"

What the fuck?

I want to howl in frustration; to curse and rage and fuck her 'till she **screams**. But my body automatically stops moving against hers, relaxing into a nonthreatening pose. I pull back a little, but don't step away, just moving far enough so I can look into her eyes and make sure she's okay.

She... reaches out and cups my face with a trembling hand.

"Not here!" A shuddering breath, and then she gasps out: "Bedroom!"

Oh. Okay, then.

Sliding my leg out from between hers -- lingering just enough to make her breath hitch in her throat -- I move back until there's enough space for her to wriggle out from between me and the wall. She takes me by the hand, glancing back over her shoulder with an expression of such naked lust that it's all I can do not to jump her right here and now. I make a sound that's very nearly a growl, gesturing with a hand I'd really rather be using to tear her clothes off.

"Lead the way, my princess."

That startles a pleased smile out of her. My pulse pounding heard and fast in my ears, I lean in close and gently brush my lips against her earlobe. She shivers delightfully.

"To my bower!" she all-but gasps. I let her lead me along the hallway.

Madly, in one part of my mind, I can't help profiling her even as I fantasise about all the things I'm going to do to her. Confident enough in her appearance to wear such a revealing outfit, knowledgable enough about the local scene to know both Vivian and I. Brazen, yet oddly shy. Used to taking charge and being the aggressor, yet willing -- even eager -- to be dominated. Geeky. Enthusiastic. Beautiful. Perfect.

And, for tonight: mine.

I can't wait to savour her.

  
Crash!

The stool hit the wall and burst apart, showering me with splinters.

Shield my eyes, keep moving. Don't stop. Whatever you do, don't stop.

Something bounced off my ribs, sending my breath whooshing out of me. Great: now the fucker was using my own tactics against me. If I had him figured right, his next move would be a charge...

Risk and opportunity, angles and trajectories, speed and timing. I'd only get one shot at this, so I had to do it right.

I staggered and groaned, clasping a hand to my side and trying to look like the impact had well-nigh crippled me. It wasn't hard to fake. He came for me, as predicted.

Wait for it...

Letting him close to grapple range went against all my instincts, but I didn't have a choice.

Now!

I dropped fluidly into a crouch, sticking a foot out to trip him. Momentum did the rest.

He went down.

  
Heartbeat loud as thunder; insistent drumbeat driving me onwards. The rhythm of desire, of need. Of desperation.

I was going to be good, I really was. But that skirt barely covers her ass, and her legs are so long and smooth and firm...

I find myself drifting in close; nibbling teasingly at her earlobe before turning my attention to her neck. She doesn't complain. Quite the opposite: she molds herself to my body, curling an arm up and around to keep me where I am, yielding in a way that thrills me deep inside.

I take that as an invitation.

Wrapping my other arm around her waist, I slide my hand up under her shirt, brushing lightly over her taut stomach before cupping one of her high, pert breasts, drawing a moan from somewhere deep in her throat. We all but fall through the first door we come to. My princess turns in my arms, raising her lips to mine like an offering, and we kiss as if our lives depend on it.

Yes. Oh yes.

I want this so badly; need it more than words could say. The beast within howls and swipes her claws, violently lashing her tail as she tries to drive me into a frenzy. Deliberately, I hold back, taking the time to carefully tease open buttons one by one when the beast would have me just tear away the flimsy barriers keeping me from my prize. Need or no, I will do this on my terms, not the beast's. **I** am the one in control here.

I... wait!

We're not alone.

Low murmur of voices; dim, flickering light.

Belatedly, I realise what my subconscious has been trying to tell me. Perhaps I stiffen, or make some small noise. Either way, my lover is alerted. She leaps back as if scalded, gasping in shock and looking wildly around the room. But I'm already ahead of her.

"It's alright," I murmur, stroking her back reassuringly.

The light and voices are coming from a television at the far side of the room -- some kind of police procedural show by the looks of it. There's a figure sprawled on the couch, but a moment's examination tells me that they're either sound asleep, or doing a very good imitation of it. Either way, it's not our problem.

Now that I come to think about it, I vaguely recall something about a flatmate. Part of me wants to say the hell with it, and just continue from where we left off, but my princess seems to have other ideas. Taking my hand again, she leads me across the room with exaggerated caution, placing a finger on her lips to impress upon me the need for silence. I can do that. I can be patient. I can wait.

But inside, the beast is howling.

  
Couldn't wait. Couldn't stop. Couldn't stick around to see what happened next.

I was already moving; taking advantage of the (at least) momentary breathing space to hightail it for the door I'd come in by. The one that led to the corridor where Morgan lay. The one where the guns were.

If I was really lucky, the unsub had cracked his head on something and knock himself unconscious. But since I didn't trust to luck at the best of times, I stuck with plan A. In any case, it seemed my luck wasn't in: judging by the cursing and groaning, the unsub was still conscious. Pity.

There was a scuffling noise, a floorboard creaking under his weight and then... was that a zip? I risked a quick glance back over my shoulder and saw the unsub still on the ground, rummaging around in what looked like a large sports bag. Oh, this was not good.

"Now you're gonna get what's coming to you, flatscan bitch!"

Eyes front, I sped up as much as I safely could. There was no way I was going to wait around to see what he pulled out of his bag of tricks. It wasn't anything I'd want to see up close, that's for sure. I needed my gun, but that was lost somewhere in the chaos of the dark, cluttered hallway. Luckily, I had a good idea where Morgan's weapon was.

I just hoped I could get to it in time.

  
So close. So very close. We're at her bedroom door now. Impatiently, I wait for her to open the door. She takes a step, flicks the lightswitch... and then just stands there on the threshold.

What now?

I bite back my instinctive response, forcing my tone into some semblance of civility. "Is something wrong?"

She looks up at me sheepishly. "It's, uh, it's kind of a mess."

"I don't **care**." I can't keep the growl at bay. "You're the only thing I'll be looking at." I move in close, gripping her ass to pull her against me. "I want you."

Her gaze darkens. "And I want you." She kisses me passionately, stepping backwards to draw me over the threshold and into her room.

At last!

Liking my hands just where they are, I use my foot to kick the door shut behind us. I try to guide us to the bed, but I haven't reckoned with the obstacle course that is the floor. She really isn't kidding about the mess. Her feet get tangled in something. She tries to free herself without breaking our liplock but ends up losing her balance completely and falling heavily against me. Midway through stepping over a scatter of DVDs, I can't brace for impact, and we end up going ass over apex.

Crunch!

The laundry basket breaks our fall, but gives way beneath our combined weight. It feels like the unfortunate item has just shuffled off this mortal coil.

Oops.

"I think we broke your laundry basket," I observe.

She giggles. "Fuck the laundry basket. I'll buy another one."

I raise myself on one elbow, letting my gaze travel the length of her body. "I'd rather fuck you."

No more waiting. The bed might be just over there, but she's right here, right now; ready and willing. That's more than enough for me.

Holding her gaze with mine, I slide my hands up her long, smooth legs, pushing her skirt up -- too much effort to remove it -- and pulling her fishnets and panties down. She spreads her legs obligingly and I press my fingers against the damp folds between.

"Ah!" Her whole body jerks at the contact. She was close before; I doubt it will take much to tip her over. I tease her entrance with my fingers, stroking rhythmically as I lightly dip inside her. She's hot and slick against my hand, the musky scent of her arousal heavy in the air. I get wet in response. Well, more wet. God, I want this so much. Leaning into her a little, I start to thrust, pivoting my wrist so I can brush the engorged bud of her clitoris with my thumb. "Oh!"

I kiss her stomach, nip lightly with my teeth, trail my tongue over her quivering skin. I cast a covetous look at where her breasts show through her half-undone blouse, but I can't reach them from here. I'd have to move, and I'm quite happy where I am for the moment. From the sounds of it, she's happy too; whimpering and panting in time with my constant, rhythmic motion.

Soon, soon... Now!

  
Splash and sizzle of liquid. Acrid taste at the back of my throat.

For a brief, horrible moment, I thought I'd been hit, but no. The thin stream of acid had splattered harmlessly against the floorboards behind me. The range might have been impressive if I wasn't on the wrong end of it. From this angle, it was fucking terrifying.

Couldn't think about that right now; couldn't remember those crime scene photos showing seared and melted flesh.

I didn't want to die that way.

I acknowledged the thought, the fear, letting it pass over me and through me. I accepted it, let its icy fingers lend speed to my body and focus to my mind. And then I pushed it away.

I had a job to do.

My world narrowed to a pinpoint focus: get the gun, take the fucker down.

Survival, first and foremost.

Nothing else mattered.

  
Nothing matters but this moment: the feel of her clenching around my hand; her body quivering beneath me as she cries out.

It's glorious. She's glorious.

She finally falls limp, smiling up at me from amidst the ruins of the laundry basket. It really is an ex-laundry basket now.

Oh well. It was a noble death.

  
Morgan's blood on my hands as I searched the floorboards. No time to check if he still lived.

Over and through.

Detach.

Find the damn gun!

I searched methodically. Memory -- knife-edged and crystal clear -- and Morgan's position told me where to look. All I had to do was find it.

Footsteps, coming closer. I tensed, the skin on my back crawling with the thought that he could be drawing a bead on me right now. This time, he could be close enough. This time, he could actually hit.

Metal beneath my hand.

Found it!

Time to turn the tables.

  
Can't wait. Have to do this now.

We were trying for the bed again, but the scent of arousal is heavy in the air and I just want to **taste** her.

No. I can't. Not that, never that. But the next best thing.

A conveniently-sized chest of drawers will do, mainly because it's right **here**. I push her roughly against it, place her hands so she can brace herself.

"Hold on, my lady."

"What? The bed's just there. What are you...?" Although puzzled, she does exactly what I say; her ready obedience driving the beast to new levels of frenzy. I drop to my knees, taking a moment to inhale deeply, both to savour her scent and to reassure myself of my own control.

Enough.

I lean forward slowly and blow on the hot wet skin, watching to see how she reacts.

"O-oh!" she gasps, twitching. "Oh, please!"

So close. I'm so close to what I want. I could indulge myself, just this once. What's the harm in just once?

No. No compromises.

  
Rising smoothly from my crouch, I turned to face the unsub, bringing the gun up in a firm, two-handed grip.

  
Even as I curse my conscientiousness, I'm already reaching in my pocket for the sterile little package. She looks down at me, first puzzled, but then enlightened when she realises what I'm unwrapping.

"I'd heard you always used one of those."

"Safety first," I mutter, opening out the piece of latex.

"Doesn't it feel weird?"

I don't bother to answer her question. Instead, I grip her thighs and let my actions do the talking.

  
The unsub checked his headlong rush; pointed the nozzle of his weapon towards me.

Towards me and Morgan.

Shit! Bullets might not put him down fast enough.

No time to think. Had to put him off his stride; had to stop him using that thing again.

"What's wrong, Wannabe? Afraid of getting up close and personal? You scared of a flatscan bitch?"

  
I wish the barrier wasn't there, but it is, and there's point in wanting what I can't have.

No regrets. No distractions.

Live in the moment.

  
He roared and charged. That worked. I just hoped I could survive this again.

  
I kiss her nether lips, work my tongue within her opening.

  
Aim for centre of mass. No hesitation.

  
I fuck her hard with my mouth, plying her with lips and my tongue as she gasps and trembles.

No holding back.

  
Pull the trigger...

  
Thrust into her...

  
Thunderous report; jolt of recoil.

Again. Again. Again.

  
Ragged cries; clench of muscles. Hands gripping my hair.

Again. Again. Again.

  
Wet slap of blood across my face.

  
Liquid evidence of her enjoyment, held back from my yearning tongue.

  
His body crashed into me.

  
...against me...

  
Low grunt of pain, confusion in his eyes.

  
Her eyes close in pleasure.

  
...clutched at me weakly...

  
She loses her balance and falls sideways...

  
...taking us both down...

  
...flailing wildly with her arms. Ornaments and nicknacks clatter and crash. I reach for her...

  
Jars tumbled and smashed; glass crunching beneath our combined weights. While on top of me...

  
...but don't manage to stop her slow motion topple. She steps on something that crunches and crackles.

  
...he spasmed and then relaxed, flopping limply. His last breaths were hot and liquid against my cheek.

  
We end up on the carpet in a tangle of limbs. A moment's pause, and then we both laugh.

  
And then the light in his eyes went out.

  
Her eyes shine like stars.

  
I had to...

  
...get out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sex scene is explicitly intended to mirror the one in Need/Desire (Chapter 4 of Faces) and to give some idea of what may be going through Emily's head there.


	4. Aftermath

The night air was cool on my skin. It might have been pleasant if not for the dead man's blood caking my clothes. You could only clean up so much using a tap and bucket. I needed a shower so badly it was almost a physical ache. I supposed I could have tried to get someone to drive me back to the hotel, but I had to be here even more than I needed to be clean. I had to see this through. It wasn't real until I saw them bring out the body bag.

That and, sadly, sickly, I never felt quite so alive as when I was in the middle of a hunt, and I couldn't quite let go of the last dregs of that feeling.

The farm was a hive of activity: colleagues, paramedics, local cops. Outside the perimeter there were even a small handful of gawkers: locals who'd been tipped off by friends in the know, no doubt. It was a small town after all. I stood apart from all the fuss and commotion, enclosed in my own little bubble of silence. Leaning on a battered wooden fence, I tilted my head up so I could look at the stars.

Orion ascendant. Figured.

Footsteps interrupted my reverie. Halting and arhythmic; only one person it could be.

"Stargazing, Prentiss?"

I turned to face Morgan. "You should be in hospital," I accused.

He joined me at the fence, settling companionably by my side. I couldn't help but notice he leaned on it much more heavily than I did. Regardless, he still managed an amused grin.

"Did I hear you right? 'It's only a flesh wound' Prentiss actually thinks wounded agents should let the paramedics take them to hospital? Without protest?" He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Can I get that in writing?"

Normally I'd bicker aimiably with him, but right now I just couldn't seem to muster the humour.

"You could have died," I said quietly. The words hung in the air between us.

"But I didn't." His expression now sober, he matched my serious tone. "Thanks to you."

"Yeah, well." I shrugged uncomfortably. "You should still have let the paramedics take you in."

"I'll go when we're done here."

"That's right, they listen to *you* when insist you're fine. And Hotch. Even Reid, for that matter. Me, they practically dragged off kicking and screaming. Remember that car crash I was in?" Not that I was bitter.

Much.

But Morgan was starting to look uncomfortable. Time to take the edge off, in more ways that one. Somehow, I managed to scrape up a lopsided grin.

"I guess they probably figured nothing was going to get through that thick skull of yours. After all, the rest of us have been trying for years."

"Hey!" He put on an expression of mock hurt. "A lesser man would be deeply offended by that. But, since I'm the caring, sensitive soul that I am, I can make allowances for someone who's clearly suffering from badass syndrome."

I rolled my eyes. This from the Worf of the team? That is to say, being both the group's official Tough Guy and, simultaneously, paradoxically, the one voted most likely to go down like a chump on any given mission. Sadly, I felt that this was far too geeky to actually say out loud. Instead I restricted myself to: "Badass syndrome? Really?"

"A text-book case."

I called bullshit, of course. He responded. We were back into the groove in no time. Apparently I could manage banter after all. If I was in the habit of lying to myself, I'd say that meant everything was back to normal. But I'm not, and it wasn't.

Not by a long shot.

* * *

The night air is cool on my skin as I make my way from her apartment. Possibly a little chilly, but I am feeling a little too raw to really tell. The lust has left me, as it always does, leaving me hurting; a broken vessel.

I hate this part, but I also love it. Sometimes I'm a little twisted.

Instinct guides me to a secluded place, an alcove beneath a footbridge. Pressure, stopping my breath, driving me to my knees. Overwhelming. Unbearable. Something has to give, and that something is me.

I hold myself as the storm breaks. My soul is naked to its raw violence, my body wracked and shaken by the force of my convulsive sobs. Tears pour down my face; a cleansing torrent of pain and release. The storm scours everything in its wake. It leaves nothing untouched, nothing behind.

Nothing but me.

I don't know how long I stay there, letting my pain, my anger, my fear flow from me and onto the ground. An instant or forever, both and neither. It doesn't matter,

Finally the tears stop, and I'm left numb. Tired. Empty. Moving on autopilot, I retrieve makeup remover and tissues from my handbag and clean the remnants of my war paint from my face. Its job was done anyway.

I call a taxi and just sit silently in the back, letting the driver's talk wash over me like waves, merely nodding and smiling at appropriate places. Then I'm at home, and it's too much like work to climb the stairs to my apartment, so I take the elevator instead. I'll make up for it tomorrow.

Once in my bedroom, I divest myself of my clothes in clean, efficient movements, take care of my ablutions and curl up in bed. I grab a well worn book from my comfort pile and open its pages at random. Ah, Slaughterhouse Five. I barely read it, just letting the familiar flow of words lull and soothe me, before putting it down again and turning off the light.

Cartharsis. It's not just a word. It's the hub around which my world turns.

As I fall to sleep, I can't help but feel that tomorrow is going to be a better day.

* * *

My mind was stuck on yesterday, screaming to itself as I relived, over and over again, that endless moment when I saw my partner go down. A door we hadn't seen. A figure bursting from the hidden room, charging into Morgan and slamming him against the wall. The sickening thud as Morgan's head hit the edge of a shelf. The soft, boneless way he crumpled to the ground. Blood; a spreading pool to stain the floorboards. His life, spilling out of him.

No.

That was then, this is now.

I forced the memories back in their box, locking them away until I could exorcise them properly. That was better. I checked my reflection in the mirror, pleased to see I looked calm. My eyes were a little bloodshot, but that was probably more to do with the general lack of sleep while working this case than anything else. I would do.

As I exited the cramped aeroplane  bathroom, I almost bumped into JJ, who was hovering nearby. I made to go around her, but she stopped me with an outstretched hand.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly.

Concern in her eyes, in the tilt of her head. For a moment, it was like it used to be, like we could be friends without complications, Without distance. Without an edge to our every interaction.

But we couldn't, and we both knew the reason why. Or thought we did. I was oddly touched that she still cared enough to check on me, but somehow not surprised in the slightest. It was what she did.

And I do what I do. What I have to.

"I'm fine," I replied, with a meaningless smile and a careless shrug. "You know me."

I'm *always* fine, or something very much like it. For certain values of fine.

For certain values of always.

"I thought," she began, then shook her head and changed it to: "Okay, then." I wondered what she'd been going to say, but the habit of distance held the words back. I nodded and moved past her, heading for the main cabin. She turned in the other direction, towards the bathroom.

"Emily?" I looked back quizzically, already reaching for the curtain separating us from the others.

"Yes?"

"Take care of yourself." And with that, the bathroom door clicked shut.

  
It was a sorry-looking group that rolled off the jet when we finally touched down. Morgan was walking wounded (the doctor at the hospital had only reluctantly discharged him, and only on the understanding that he have a check-up after the flight). Reid and JJ were both uncharacteristically subdued. Hotch was seething -- in his own inscrutable way -- over an encounter with the mayor just before wheels up. I didn't really know what it was about. I didn't want to know. Rossi was distant; he'd spent most of the flight back immersed in his writing. And me?

I was texting Celia. And I was just *fine*. At least I had every intention of making sure that I was.

  
The best that could be said for the showers at work was that they were adequate. At least the anaemic spray got the grime of the flight off. That would have to do for now. Anyway, I'd be able to go home soon. I could have gone straight there if I'd really wanted, but none of us would have dreamed of asking Hotch for permission. He would have granted it, no question, complaint or hesitation, but that wasn't the issue. It was a point of pride. Nothing got in the way of the job. Not injury, not shooting someone. Not your personal life. Nothing. So here we all were, for as long as we were needed.

Or, at least, until Hotch sent us home.

  
Low voices up ahead gave me pause. Morgan and JJ by the sounds of it, and they were in earnest discussion. I didn't thnk they'd appreciate me barging in on them. I should probably have headed back to the lockers to wait until they were done. I could have used the time to do something about my hair, which I'd just pulled back into a damp ponytail. But I didn't. Instead, I loitered a little way around the curve of the corridor, eavesdropping shamelessly.

"She won't even speak to me." There was genuine distress in Morgan's voice. My eyebrows shot up as I processed that information. Garcia wasn't speaking to her favourite Honey-Bun? Apparently, she really was upset with him.

"I don't blame her."

Wait, what?

"What?" Morgan sounded as shocked as I was.

"What, 'what'?" There was a darkly amused edge to JJ's voice; one I hadn't heard before. I was willing to bet that Morgan's expression right now was a sight to see. "Were you expecting sympathy?"

"I guess I was kinda hoping for some... advice? On how to patch things up with her. I mean, I don't even know why she's so upset with me!"

"And that's the problem, isn't it? You don't understand." She stopped there, and I could hear her taking a few deep breaths; could practically sense her counting to ten in her mind to regain her self-control. "Look, Morgan: you want advice? Don't talk to me right now. Ask me tomorrow instead."

And with that, I heard rapid footsteps heading towards me. Too light to be Morgan; had to be JJ. I had a brief moment to think about ducking into a side-corridor. After all, did I really want to get involved in this? But then... JJ was a member of the team, and it sounded like she needed to talk. I didn't see Garcia -- my usual JJ buffer -- anywhere around, so that left yours truly. With only a smidgin of inward trepidation, I made myself stay where I was.

I hoped I wasn't going to regret this.

JJ slowed as she caught sight of me, eyeing me warily but not speaking until she'd put some distance between her and the site of her conversation with Morgan. I assumed Morgan had fled the scene, but better safe than sorry.

"How much of that did you hear?" she demanded.

I shrugged. "Enough. I heard that yesterday was difficult."

She gave a short bark of laughter, a sound devoid of humour. "You could say that."

"Want to talk about it?" I offered, cautiously. She might have checked up on me on the plane, but that didn't mean we'd reached the 'braiding each other's hair' stage.  After what she said to Morgan... Let's just say I felt some caution was merited.

JJ gave me an appraising look. "Are you offering to listen?"

"I suppose I am."

I could see the question in her eyes, but she didn't ask it. Instead, she leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely over her stomach.

"I've never had to talk down a would-be lynch mob before."

Oh. I see.

I had only found out about this after the fact. Apparently, while most of us were out in the field, some bright sparks decided to seize the opportunity to 'deal with' the former mutants in custody at the station.

Stopping the potential violence would certainly look good on her CV, I mused, but she probably didn't want to hear that at the moment.

"Sounds like you did a good job, though. The way Rossi told it, you sent them all home feeling thoroughly ashamed of themselves."

"It was a close thing." Her gaze was distant and shuttered. "Too close. What if I hadn't...?"

"But you did." I took a step forward. "It happened how it happened. Don't second guess it; just learn from the experience and move on."

She shot me a Look. "Wise words," she commented, sardonically.

I nodded. "Yeah. Not mine, but I'll quote 'em." It had taken my younger self a while to see the wisdom in the words. I wasn't blind to the irony of me trying to pass it on to someone else.

JJ closed her eyes for a moment, then met my gaze directly. "It's not just what might have been," she said, quietly. "It's that people could feel such hate, such violence towards people who never did them any harm. That they would see them as something less than human. Like... Like animals to be put down." A brief hesitation, and then: "What makes someone feel that way?"

A loaded question. Double-edged words. A minefield I didn't need right now. Didn't need ever, if I had my way.

"Human nature," I answered, shrugging. "Hate what you fear; fear what you don't understand. If we fully understood the whys and wherefores, our jobs would be a hell of a lot easier."

"I guess," she said, quietly. The trite answer didn't satisfy her, but I could tell she wasn't going to push. That was probably for the best. If she wanted philosophy, she could go hit up Rossi.

"Hence the conversation with Morgan?" I enquired. It seemed a reasonable guess.

Another Look came my way. "Pretty much. Any other time, I might have been able to explain it to him without the use of vulgarity. But that is not this day. The whole subject's still a little raw."

"I noticed."

She gave me an almost guilty smile, which then faded. "You would." There was a hint of something else in her voice, something I really didn't want to get into.

But... in spite of everything else, she was still a friend. "Do you want to meet up after work?" I asked, trying to keep any hint of reluctance from my voice. With work colleagues *wasn't* where I wanted to spend my evening, and it would definitely take its toll. I guessed that in some ways, I was still a sucker.

She looked at me with more than a little surprise. "Sure. Garcia and I had already decided to make a night of it, and you're welcome to join us."

At least she wasn't going to be alone. No need for me after all. "I'll see if I can make it," I temporised.

JJ nodded, the polite excuse noted for what it was. "If you can, we'll see you in the usual bar."

This was getting entirely too touchy-feely for my tastes. I gave her a smile, and headed off to my desk.

  
The door to Hotch's office opened just wide enough for him to stick his head out. "Go *home*, people." I glanced at my watch. Right on cue. The door closed again. He wasn't taking his own advice, I noticed. I thought half-heartedly about trying to finish off the pile of "I shot a guy in self-defence" forms in front of me before heading out, but fuck it. They could wait until tomorrow.

I had things to do.

"Hey, Prentiss."

"Yeah?" I looked up as Morgan leaned on the corner of my desk. Go-bag already in hand, my skin practically itched with the need to be out of this place. Keeping the edge from my voice took more effort than it should have.

"Fancy going out for a few?"

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass." I frowned as a thought struck me. "Anyway, should you really be drinking with a concussion?"

He rolled his eyes at me. "For your information, Dr Prentiss, I was only planning on having one beer. Maybe two. Figured I'd switch to soft drinks and watch the rest of you make jackasses of yourselves."

"How... charming."

"You wouldn't deny the wounded hero his entertainment, would you?" He made with the puppy dog eyes. "Come out with us. At least for a little while. Everyone's going to be there."

"Everyone?"

"Well, all the guys." He shrugged a little awkwardly. "I think the girls have their own plans."

"So, I'm one of the guys, am I?" I looked down at myself pointedly. "Gee, thanks, Morgan. I know you said it took balls to take down that unsub, but I didn't realise you were thinking that literally."

Morgan glowered at me. "You know I didn't mean it like that." Any other day, he'd have probably grinned and gone with the joke. The whole business with Garcia seemed to have really shaken his cool.

I took pity on him. "Yeah, I know. But I still have to pass. Have a good one, alright?"

"Alright. You too, Prentiss."

I waved an acknowledgement as I shouldered my go-bag and made for the door.

A good one? Maybe, maybe not. A necessary one? Definitely.

* * *

As always, Celia's welcoming smile warms me like sunlight. As always I find myself smiling helplessly back.

"Hey," I say as she envelops me in a tight hug, and for a moment my world is light. As always.

"Hey," she replies. "Go on, put your coffee down so I can start the interrogation."

"Great," I say a touch sardonically, placing the mug carefully on the table in front of us. "Sometimes I think that being your friend should come with legal protections."

"If you widened the definition to include 'political ally' you might find enough support to get that law passed."

"If I didn't despise politicians so much, then I might consider trying that."

She widens her eyes in mock hurt. "Present company excepted, I hope."

I pretend to think for a moment, with a twist on my lips. "I'll get back to you on that."

She mimes throwing something at me. "Don't think that snarking at me will save you from my prying."

I blink innocently at her.

"Get to it, then!" Her eyes flash commandingly, and I'm taken back to our time together at one of the many schools I attended.

And just like then, I am helpless to do anything other than comply. I sketch out the 'highlights' of my last case, editing out some of the more recognisable specifics. And I let the last of the stress, the pain, the fear go, as she gives me the only absolution I need or desire these days.

It's enough.

"I believe that you mentioned something about relationship woes," I say afterwards.

"Speaking of relationships, when are you going to start to look for one?"

At any other time, such a question, even from her, might make me bristle and retreat behind a wall of ice. But not now, not at the moment, not while I have been cleansed by the night's activities. And she knows this, curse her.

Instead I reply: "Why would I want to have a relationship? It's not like I have time for one. Besides, this life suits me."

She looks at me, eyebrow arched. "Really?" she asks, as though she isn't the poster child for one night stands.

I smile at her, unforced, unhurried. She makes it easy for me. "I'm happy." And I am. Well, content at the very least. And, really, what more can you ask?

"You," she pokes a finger in my direction. "Were not meant to be single. You can't let that little shit Amanda still control you." I'm too mellow for even the mention of *her* to blemish my mood. "You have too much love to give."

I don't tell her that it's fine, really. I don't tell her that I already have someone I love. And I certainly don't tell her that the special person is her. My straight best friend. I'm a walking lesbian cliche. If she knows, she has certainly never brought it up. And, really, that's good. I didn't focus my affections on her because I expected her to reciprocate. Quite the opposite. A nice, happy and altogether safe option that I never have to worry about the stresses and strains of a real relationship with.

Just what I want. Just what I need.

I may not feel quite so alive, but I never feel more unforcedly *myself* than when I'm with her like this.

So instead of engaging with her response, I just shrug and say "I believe that we were actually talking about your latest relationship." I smirk a little. "Give."

She grins and gracefully accepts my redirect, "Oh very well, my little carrion crow."

I let the sound of her voice relax me as she tells me about her latest (mis)adventures in dating.

  
The office is just starting to come to life as I make my way in. I wander in the direction of the coffee machine, nodding greetings as I go, before making my way to my desk. Paperwork awaits me like an evil curse, but it's a curse I've gotten used to. I sigh and start filling out forms. It's just another part of my merry-go-round life, my job, my sporadic hunts, my friends. I may not have everything that I dreamed of when I was younger, but it's enough. I'm content. I may even be happy.

And it's a bright day. A good day.

I wonder if we'll get a new case.


End file.
